


Zoey's Extraordinary Roommate

by dawningstars



Category: Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Light Angst, Max is a Hufflepuff, Protectiveness, Roommates, Slow Burn, They are my sweet summer children and I am winter, Whump, and they were ROOMMATES, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawningstars/pseuds/dawningstars
Summary: Somehow, it didn’t even occur to her to ask a guy to be her roommate, which probably was a little short sighted, given that there really aren’t that many double X chromosomes walking around SPRQ Point. But Max isn’t, like, a fratboy, and she already knows they are going to be friends for life, so the idea of rooming with this particular Y chromosome doesn’t strike the fight or flight response that, say, Tobin, would. Shudder.Max shrugs but his brown eyes are warm and eager. “The more the merrier. So long as you’re not allergic to cats, and okay with, like, a lot of reruns of the Star Wars Christmas special.”
Relationships: Zoey Clarke & Max Richman, Zoey Clarke/Max Richman
Comments: 23
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, folks! I just finished binge-watching the show and instead of focusing on grad school, I did...this...stuff.
> 
> I'm picturing this as a series of snippets into what the show might have looked like if Zoey and Max had become roommates 5 years ago, around when they met at SPRQ Point. I have a bit of plot up my sleeve, but I'd consider any feedback or insights you want to share as the story grows.
> 
> Ratings may change, tags may be added. Who knows. It's 2020.
> 
> Fun fact: I watched the crew filming for Season 2 on Tuesday at my university, and actually literally bumped into Skylar Astin and Alex Newell as I was leaving the building. I didn't say anything and kept walking, but I felt my eyes get way too big to look like a normal human being. And Skylar smiled at me and whoo, my heart rate is still going. So. Yeah. Fun fact.

Zoey is in the middle of cutting tear-off strips into the poster when she sees Max come back from his lunch break with a compostable coffee carrier.

“What’s this?” he says, eyeing her scissors and handing her a to-go cup. The cup’s logo is unmistakable.

“I could ask you the same question,” she teases, smiling ear-to-ear as she takes the cup. “I see you’ve discovered my weakness.”

“Hard not to,” he says with a grin, hooking his foot into a nearby rolling chair, dragging it closer to her desk, and sitting backwards on it. “Your annotations were not all that subtle.”

Zoey vaguely remembers circling or starring or highlighting or maybe all-threeing the Golden Gate Grind in the slightly outdated Lonely Planet guide she’d bought—a botched New Year’s resolution to do Yelp reviews. Since Max was fresh from NYU, she figured he’d get more use out of it than her. Even though it was kind of ridiculous to keep a paper copy, he seemed to appreciate the gesture.

Zoey takes a sip without looking at the Sharpied words on the cup, and to her surprise, it’s her normal drink: a non-fat latte. He must have really been reading those notes.

“Thank you,” she says, and he smiles sheepishly. “I think you might’ve just resurrected me.” She gives the scissors an experimental snip and gets back to cutting the poster. “I decided to move out of my parents’ house. It’s getting a little claustrophobic, and I figure now that I’m done with school, it’s time to put on my grownup pants and get my own place, especially with the commute time.”

Max is nodding his head. Even with parents as amazing as Zoey says they are, he gets it. “That’s great! When I was back with my parents for a few weeks after graduation I felt like everyone was in my business all the time. So…what, are you looking for a place or a roommate?”

He takes one of the posters in her pile and looks it over as she rambles. “I have a place in mind, but I’m hoping to figure out a roommate first. It’s cheap for here but still way too expensive for my loans, even if it’s a crappy area.”

Max’s eyes bug out at the cross streets. She’s not sure if he’s gotten incredibly familiar with maps of San Francisco, or if the area’s reputation precedes it.

“Planning on getting mugged anytime soon?” he mutters, incredulous.

“I mean, it’s not _that_ bad,” Zoey starts, but Max is already Googling the actual address, his lips pursed.

“Yeah, no, this doesn’t look great, Zo,” he says. “Any other options?”

Zoey puffs out her cheeks and sighs. “Not in my price range, not now. At least, not when I check. I never refresh the page at the right time. Two seconds after a new listing is posted and there are already seventy kombucha fanatics making offers.”

Max frowns. After a long moment, watching her snip at the poster, he speaks again. “Look, my uncle has this fairly decent condo about a twenty minute walk from here, and he’s subletting it out to me with a deal.” She glowers and says something about nepotism under her breath which makes him chuckle.

“So?” he asks, tilting his head.

“So what? Good for you,” she says, only a little bitter. “The commute sounds nice.”

Max rolls his eyes.

“ _So_ I’m asking: do you want to split the rent? It’s a two bedroom and it’s by no means the Ritz, but it’s definitely a better option than _that_.”

Zoey’s eyes fly open so comically that he coughs to disguise his laugh. “What? I mean, that’s really nice to offer, but are you sure?”

Somehow, it didn’t even occur to her to ask a guy to be her roommate, which probably was a little short sighted, given that there really aren’t that many double X chromosomes walking around SPRQ Point. But Max isn’t, like, a fratboy, and she already knows they are going to be friends for life, so the idea of rooming with this particular Y chromosome doesn’t strike the fight or flight response that, say, Tobin, would. _Shudder_.

Max shrugs but his brown eyes are warm and eager. “The more the merrier. So long as you’re not allergic to cats, and okay with, like, a _lot_ of reruns of the _Star Wars_ Christmas special.”

“You _have_ _it_?” she nearly squeals. She’d been looking for a copy of the disasterpiece for years. “You absolute nerd.”

His smile is mischievous. “Well, my old piano teacher _may_ have burned a disc for me. I think he said it was a cautionary tale about the dangers of coasting on past success.”

Zoey laughs but she can hardly imagine Max coasting on anything. In the two weeks she’s known him ( _only two weeks?_ ) it has become quite clear that Max is probably one of—no, all right—he _is_ the most present, humble, and hardworking member of their team.

“I wouldn’t mind a cautionary tale every once in awhile, _if_ there’s Wookies involved,” she says lightly. “But—you have a cat? How did I not know this?”

He’s quick to clarify. “No, no cats, yet. But I’ve been thinking about it for awhile, and this is the first pet friendly building I’ve lived in, so…it might be on the horizon.”

“Honestly, a cat would be a perk, so that’s no problem.” She pauses. “Thanks for offering. But…you don’t think you would go insane seeing your coworker all the time? I mean, obviously, you’re living alone right now so I figure—”

He brushes it off. “I mean, if the orientation speech was any indication, we’re all going to be in straitjackets by the end of the month, so why not lean into it? Just kidding, I think it’d be cool. And it’s not like you’re Tobin.” He tilts his head toward Tobin, who is swirling Hot Cheetos in a jar of Nutella at his desk.

“True,” she agrees, snickering. “I guess I’ll put these ads on pause.”

“Great, well, if you want to check the place out for yourself, we could walk over after work?”

Zoey leans down to stuff the half-finished posters into her bag when she says, “Great. It’s a date.” She doesn’t see Max’s cheek twitch.

“Hey, you two nerds gossiping about me?” yells Tobin from his desk. “Because if you are, it better be good.”

Max was being humble. His place is _very_ nice. He’d given an overview of the layout and amenities on the walk there, and a guesstimate of the fees (“I already set up shop in the bigger room, so your share of the rent would reflect that,”) but she wasn’t prepared for how _nice_ it would be. It’s modern and very clean but not unlived in. It looks like a real, grown man’s apartment. Sure, there are goofy posters up, but they’re in tasteful black frames, not just sticky-tacked to the wall like in her bedroom at home, which has endured an endless montage of shifting posters, fairy lights, and mood boards between middle school, high school, undergrad, and grad school.

“Um,” Zoey says, as she follows his example and toes off her shoes, revealing her lucky socks: telescopes and stars. His are black and yellow Hufflepuff stripes. “You _live_ here?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by that, but yes.”

“Be flattered. W-o-w.” The place is perfectly furnished, but more than that, it’s clear that the owner has it together. She’s eyeing the dish-free sink and the bowl of shiny, decidedly un-moldy fruit on the bar when he offers to give her the grand tour. Zoey takes silent notes. Living room (comfy-looking leather sofa), eat-in kitchen (with a weird but convenient laundry machine and dryer), bathroom (two sinks, skylights), bedrooms (decent closet space).

They get to the bedrooms last. The master sits at the end of the hall, while the spare is the last door on the left. It’s minimally furnished, with a Queen bed, desk, dresser, a floor lamp, and some built-in bookshelves. One less gauntlet at Ikea. Zoey sits down on the Queen to test the mattress and gives it a quick bounce. The bedsprings are a bit firm and creaky but it’ll be soft enough once she gets a foam mattress topper on it.

Max leans against the door frame, somehow looking both comfortable and nervous.

She criss-crosses her legs on the bed, bopping her head and shoulders. “I gotta say, Max, it’s looking _preeeetty_ perfect. So, if you’re not afraid of cooties and really _do_ want a roommate slash coworker slash friend to slowly descend into madness with, I’m yours.”

She’s almost blinded. How white are his teeth even?

“That’s awesome, Zo! Would you be okay to move in on the first of the month? On paper I mean—you can start moving stuff any time.”

They shuffle back down the hallway to the living room, Max just behind her, and it occurs to her that the hall seems a bit tight with the two of them. She shakes it off.

They plant themselves on the sofa to talk logistics, and then there’s celebratory Thai takeout and beer-clinking on the coffee table. And then Zoey is teasing him as she combs through his ridiculously packed DVD binder. Max just watches her, feeling something unstated ballooning in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack. Happy Turkey Day to those of you in the States. I wrote this chapter as a reward for getting some work (mostly) done. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos last time. It's been so long since I've shared my writing, and the confidence boost was truly so, so wonderful.

Zoey groans as she walks into the kitchen.

“Morning.” Max doesn’t look up from the _New York Times_ article on his tablet. Of course he’s already dressed and ready, first (but by no means last) mug of the day in hand. Unlike Zoey, he is a morning person. She suspects his caffeine addiction has turned him into a mutant, because how can anyone be like this in the morning?

But at least it means that the kettle is always ready with enough water for at least two hot beverages. So she’s not complaining.

Not about Max, anyway. Their noisy new neighbour, though…

“Whoa,” he says, looking up and eyeing her hole-y, plaid sweats, before lifting his raised eyebrows to her face. “Someone’s up early. I didn’t know you _existed_ before 7:00 A.M.”

She sticks her tongue out and makes for the fridge.

“Ugh. I need to talk to Mo. Of all the days to blast whatever that music is—”

“Wait a second, are you saying you don’t know Wham!? Tsk tsk, Clarke.”

“Wham! or not, it’s _not_ the day for it,” she growls, trying to unscrew her jug of orange juice with vicious but ineffectual fingers. It won’t budge. Wordlessly, Max holds out a hand for the jug. Zoey huffs, and hands it over. He unscrews the jug’s cap and hands it back to her.

“Thanks,” she says, pouring juice into a glass and swirling it like it’s a whiskey neat. “I had at least three nightmares last night, and each of them involved a different SPRQ appliance Joan was trying to kill me with. I think I ended up getting shrunk down and trapped in a microchip at one point. It was really dusty and I kept sneezing.”

“ _Oof_ , yikes. But hey, don’t focus on that. You’re gonna be great today! Plus, it’s Friday. Good things happen on Fridays.”

“I hope so, but I just—I feel like I have too many tabs open in my brain right now. You know, with the interview, my dad, these headaches…”

“You’ve been having headaches?” he asks. Zoey half wishes she hadn’t brought it up, because suddenly she knows that he’s not gonna let this one go.

“I think so. I don’t think they’re migraines, exactly but they’re pretty rough for headaches. And lately I’ve been getting this pain behind my eyes. It makes me,” she looks at the floor, “you know, wonder if it’s something genetic, like…to do with my dad.”

She looks back up to see Max’s face twist, taut with compassion and concern. And she hates it. Hates feeling helpless, hates feeling fragile, hates that her father is fading into a shadow of himself. Hates that Max can somehow _see_ her and her brokenness more clearly than anyone else in her life.

Maybe hate is the wrong word. But whatever she feels, it’s something powerful, something unstoppable, and she cringes away from it, like a surfer paddling away from a tsunami.

“I’m sorry. Have you talked to a doctor yet? Maybe gotten an MRI?”

Zoey laughs without humour. “ _Yet_? No, nope, nope-ity-nope. You know how claustrophobic I get in the elevator—I’m not going in the astronaut coffin.”

“Yeah, but you still get in the elevator. And it sounds like this is something you should pay attention to. Wouldn’t it be better to know for sure what’s going on than guess?”

He’s pushing and she pushes back, just a little. “I mean, maybe. But I’m really not looking for a health lecture from my _roommate_ right now, Max. It’s stressing me out.”

She thinks she sees something—is that _pain_?—flicker in his eye, but he backs off with his hands in the air. “Okay, okay. Just… consider it.”

Zoey nods, feeling a little guilty, and Max changes the subject, steering them back to their regular light banter.

That night she’s sitting on the couch with Schrödinger, nursing a glass of I-Didn’t-Get-the-Promotion wine and scheduling herself for an MRI.

On the bright side, they have a time slot on Monday that’s not filled yet, so it looks like she’ll be going in first thing next week. On the less bright side, it looks like she’ll be going in first thing next week.

Zoey hardly hears Max come in or drop his gym bag by the door. But she does feel the couch shift as he plops down beside her with a deep sigh. She relaxes some as she breathes in the familiar scent of his shampoo: cedar, oak, lavender, and geranium.

(She’s not a shampoo sommelier. She just read the bottle one night when she ran out of tampons and Max rushed off to the store with a screenshot of her usual brand.)

Max’s hair is still damp from his shower and she notices he seems more tired than sleepy, which strikes her as off. Usually, he comes back from the gym looking warm and sated and a bit like how she imagines he’d look after—

Whoa. What.

“Hey,” he says, and she shakes herself out of whatever the hell _that_ was.

“Hi,” she chirps back, giving him an awkward shoulder punch before sinking back into the cushions. “Some day, huh.”

“Yep, some day. Sorry about Joan. You really do deserve the promotion. I wouldn’t give up yet.”

She waves his kind words off with a half-hearted swipe of her hand. “At least she didn’t trap me in a microchip.”

“There is that,” Max agrees with a tiny quirk to his lips. Schrödinger clambers off her lap to bump his head against Max in greeting. He absentmindedly rubs behind Schro’s ears as the cat curls up between them, and then he nods at her laptop and the scrawled notes on her legal pad.

“Whatcha doing?”

She sighs and finger-paints some random, invisible words on her denim-clad knee. “Well, my mom got to me. I guess I’m climbing into the MRI tomorrow and hopefully it won’t shoot me off into some parallel dimension…If you say so much as one ‘I told you so’—” she threatens.

“Not a chance,” he says, clasping his hands together like a saint. But he looks entirely too pleased with the news.

Zoey narrows her eyes at him. “Mother duck.”

He shrugs, that easy grin spreading across his face. He seems happy enough to own the label. “Quack.”

She can’t help but produce a matching smile.

Zoey spends the next couple hours watching YouTube videos about MRIs. Finally, Max pads down the hallway, yawning, and tells her she’ll sleep through her alarm and the Saturday morning Farmer’s Market if she stays up much longer.

He has a point, the mother ducker.

Zoey rushes home, clamping her hands over her ears, knowing she probably looks crazy. Maybe she is. But home is in sight now, and she can deal with whatever is going on once she gets back to her refuge. She slams the door shut behind her, gritting her teeth.

Her first instinct is to find Max. She casts about the apartment for him for a few breathless seconds before she remembers that it is in fact a work day. He won’t be back until 5:30 or so. She was planning on getting back to work just before lunchtime, but now that she’s _clearly_ having some kind of mental break, it might just be easier to take the afternoon. She can tell Joan the doctors were running behind, or needed to do more tests, or something. Did a little lie matter all that much? Her boss already looked right through her and found her lacking.

Zoey fumbles her phone and punches Joan's number. When she calls to explain that the doctors need a bit more time with her at the hospital, her boss is surprisingly neutral—well, for her. Joan snaps out a vaguely threatening well-wish before hanging up.

Zoey slides down the door, and stares at the words “call ended” for a long time, a sob lodged in her throat.

This isn’t her. She doesn’t play hooky. She doesn’t just lose it.

Of all the times for this…well, whatever it is, to happen. It has to be in her head, right?

People don’t get musically stalked and then gaslit. It's not like flash mobbers try and argue that they weren’t singing and dancing after the fact. It just doesn’t make _sense_. Nobody she knows would plan something like this.

Well, sure, Max’ll show her footage of surprise musical theatre in train stations and things like that when they pop up in his filter bubble. But she only watches them ironically, feeling second-hand embarrassment for the group of unsuspecting tourists, or the person about to get proposed to, or whatever. “I’ll say this,” she said one time, sitting up and feeling charitable. “If a relationship can survive a flash mob, it’s forever.”

But this random attack of song and dance can’t be her best friend’s idea of an inside joke. None of it makes sense.

It’s crazy.

And…is she? Crazy?

Crazy, crazy, crazy.

The word echoes in her mind until a song interrupts it.

No, no, no…

It’s coming from next door. Mo.

Mo’s safe to ask. Equal chance he’s singing along to whatever’s on his playlist or singing out his thoughts and feelings, like the rest of San Francisco, today, apparently. She bangs on his door.

Zoey feels marginally better after spilling her guts to Mo. But she’s still full of restless energy.

Five years ago, she and Max designated Sunday their cleaning day for common areas, and it stuck. She can’t hear Sarah Brightman without smelling the ghost of Windex. Since it’s only Monday, there’s not much that needs scrubbing or dusting or vacuuming. She settles on catching up on laundry and making a game plan for the rest of the week.

Every time her phone rings, beeps, or whistles, she jumps. So Zoey makes a rare exception to her rule and blindly puts it on airplane mode, and on silent for good measure. She’s off the clock anyway. Let future, more put-together Zoey worry about it.

By 5:30, all her laundry is neatly folded, her journaling pen’s run out of ink, Schrödinger’s been fed, and her heart’s stopped slamming against her chest.

At a loss for what else to do, she pulls down two bowls and ladles out the stew she and Max meal prepped together. Well, she _did_ cut some of the vegetables.

By 6, she’s frowning at her empty bowl. Max rarely stays at work past 5 or 5:10, unless there’s some sort of huge glitch or project that requires the team to stay at SPRQ Point into the wee hours. But that’s only very occasionally. She puts saran wrap over his stew and puts it in the fridge. She can reheat it later. Maybe she’ll claim it for lunch tomorrow and have him ladle his own. The gesture suddenly seems too domestic. Like a black and white sitcom.

And by 6:30, she decides to check her phone.

Oh boy.

There’s a number of texts, Facebook messages, and a few missed calls. To her relief, none of the calls are from Mom or David, and one of the numbers ends up being a telemarketer.

But there’s two voice messages from Max, and a few of the Facebook messages and lots of the texts are his as well.

She hopes he’s okay, suddenly, and has to tamp down a swell of panic to sort through the notifications.

**Hope the astronaut coffin wasn’t too bad. :) Did we say Roberto’s or Robertito’s for tacos? Don’t see you yet at Roberto’s. Tell me I didn’t get the place wrong. BTW did you feel that earthquake on your floor of the hospital?**

**Sent 12:14 PM.**

**It was Robertito’s, wasn’t it? Dang. Okay I’m just gonna grab some carnitas and I guess we can compare after lunch. See you back there.**

**Sent 12:39 PM.**

**Hey Zo? Did something come up with your appointment? Can’t find you anywhere. Can you call me?**

**Sent 1:44 PM.**

**Zoeeeey?**

**Sent 1:48.**

**Ok Zoey I’m getting freaked out here. Please just let me know you’re not in a ditch somewhere??**

**Sent 2:23 PM.**

**Joan came over and said you might be in the hospital for the day? Hope everything’s okay over there! Let me know if you need anything. xx**

**Sent 2:40 PM.**

**I’m en route to the hospital. Should be there around 5:40 or 5:50.**

**MAX (Bestie) has started sharing his location with you.**

**Sent 5:05 PM.**

**MAX (Bestie) has stopped sharing his location with you.**

**Sent 5:42 PM.**

Zoey winces, and right on cue, Max walks through the door, carrying a helium balloon shaped like a star. His shoulders slump with relief when he sees her. The balloon bumps against the ceiling as he rushes forward to grab her shoulders.

“Oh my God, Zoey, are you okay?” he gasps, scanning her face, neck, arms, hands. It’s like he’s trying to find a gaping wound.

The guilt almost bowls her over, and she’s rushing her words out, just as frantic to calm him as he is to make sure she’s okay. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I turned off my phone. I just read your texts. I’m so sorry for freaking you out! I’m fine, I’m fine.”

It seems like she finally gets through to him because he lets go of her shoulders and steps back. He runs a hand through his hair, which looks like it’s gained some volume over the course of the day.

“What _happened_ today?” he says after a few deep breaths. “I was worried sick.”

Abruptly, it seems ridiculous. What should she say to him? That she got an MRI and suddenly everyone’s singing and dancing around her? But only she can see and hear it?

Zoey realizes he’ll think she has a brain tumor. And she can’t worry him like that; make him think she’s an “unreliable narrator.” Plus, who knows if whatever is going on with her head today is even going to happen again? She hasn’t had an...episode since she got back home.

Zoey’s mouth opens and closes before she settles on a story, a little white lie so he can relax. As easygoing a guy as Max is, he’s never quite been able to sit still when she needs something. Which is sweet. But also, kind of intense. She figures he’s the Samwise to her Frodo.

“I—uh, the earthquake happened while I was in the MRI, so they had to put me in again, and then they wanted to keep me around for a little. Just some insurance thing. I was planning on going back to work but, uh, you know, the earthquake and the claustrophobia sort of, um, shook me up,” she tries to make a convincing smile at the cheesy pun. “So I called Joan and let her know I was taking the day. I guess things got lost in translation.”

It's not exactly a lie, but it’s also not exactly the truth.

Max is looking at her oddly, measuring her words. But then he scratches his forehead and seems to put whatever he was thinking aside.

“Well, that sounds like your own personal nightmare. You feeling better now?”

“I’m good,” she says, too fast. “Uh-is that for me?”

He looks back up at the balloon like he’s seeing it for the first time, and pulls it down by its string.

“Actually it’s for Schrödinger. But you can have it if you want.”

“Gee, thanks,” she teases, playing with the balloon’s star-shaped anchor. “But seriously, you went all the way to the hospital? That’s really, really nice, but you didn’t need to do that for me.”

He makes a _pfft_ sound, his eyes full of something she can’t quite decipher. It reminds her of that tsunami, so she paddles away quickly.

“I wanted to. I care about you, Zoey. You’re my best friend. So next time you go MIA from the rest of the world, can you give me a little heads up?”

She nods her head up and down emphatically.

“Okay, thanks,” he says. He seems to realize he still has his shoes on, and tugs them off before walking to the fridge. “Hey, were you saving this bowl of stew for later?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love, love, love to hear your thoughts. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Term is done and I'm back! And so are our favourite idiots in love. I've been really enjoying your feedback so far, y'all are the real OGs for keeping me going. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Zoey tosses and turns all night. She can’t get away from the music, even in sleep—if that’s what it can be called. Her dreams are a jarring kaleidoscope of song and dance, but once or twice there'll be a break and she hears only one voice that sounds…different, but vaguely familiar.

She feels a little better in the morning, if only because sunrise means she can stop panicking about getting enough sleep. The day will just be a little funky and she’ll need one more cup of coffee than usual. Monitor and adjust, that’s what her mom always says.

For once, she’s up before Max. He shuffles into the kitchen at 6, still in his t-shirt and sweats, and his jaw drops cartoonishly when she offers him a mug of black coffee. The look is priceless, and she laughs, enjoying the distraction.

And Max really is a pleasant distraction, with his morning stubble and his unruly bedhead and the way his eyes crinkle up a little when he takes the cup. She can admit that. Friends can acknowledge that their friends are conventionally attractive. Doesn’t mean anything.

She watches him wrap both his hands around the mug, so tenderly. Like it’s precious. Which is weird. Because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to her, and certainly not to him.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever tried your coffee,” he says after a sip. “It’s good. What’s the occasion?”

It’s been five years and this is the first time she’s ever made her roommate coffee? It’s a little shock, and she thinks guiltily of the hundreds—thousands? well, definitely a _lot_ —of cups he’s made her over the years.

Meaningless cups of coffee. Just five years of nice, friendly, meaningless cups of coffee.

If they meant something, Max—emotionally intelligent, up front, dependable Max—would’ve said something. At some point. In the last five years.

She shrugs.

“Change of pace, I guess? Couldn’t really sleep last night and I was up anyway. Plus. I have to pay you back for that balloon somehow.”

She knows it’s not just the balloon, which is currently tethered to her telescope. But she doesn’t want to talk about the bigger gesture. Emotions are not her forte, even when they’re extremely platonic ones for her extremely platonic roommate and coworker.

“Please.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s a soft smile hiding at one corner of his mouth.

Zoey's still on edge as they start off for work, but she unclenches a muscle or two with every minute that a random stranger doesn’t pirouette into her personal bubble. Maybe she and Mo were wrong. Maybe yesterday was just a teeny tiny, normal existential crisis and she isn’t some kind of musical MRI mutant after all.

And if their hypothesis were true, then wouldn’t she have heard a song from Max last night when he came back from the hospital? He seemed pretty worried.

Zoey allows herself to relax. Yesterday was weird, but this day will be better.

Maybe not as great as the day the new guy—Simon?—seems to be having at the ping pong table.

Max follows the direction of her glance. “Look at him. I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as that guy is at 9:30 in the morning on a Tuesday.”

“He does have a certain joie de vivre, doesn’t he?”

Her gaze lingers on the way his button-down strains against his bunching muscles.

“Have we ever had joie de vivre?” Max asks, his voice tearing her away from the nice view.

Zoey doesn’t have to think too hard before she answers.

“I don’t really think we’re really joie de vivre people.”

Tobin interrupts them then.

“There you guys are. Joan is in rare form today. Come on.”

“Wait, wait. What’s happening?”

“You mean she didn’t tell you over Skinnygirl margaritas last night?”

Max stiffens beside her but Zoey just rolls her eyes.

“Seriously, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“My mom left me when I was young, and my whole life has been a series of rejections from the opposite sex. Any other questions?”

They let Tobin steer them toward the briefing, Max muttering, “Yes, I have many, _many_ questions.”

“Hey, Zo?”

“Yeah?” Zoey drags her eyes away from her screen, wincing at the less the ergonomic position she's been sitting in. Max has his bag slung over one shoulder.

“Listen, I’m going to head out for a minute to feed Schrödinger. Should be back around 6, 6:10, unless you want me to pick something up?”

She’s dying for a gyro from the Greek place two blocks over, but the shiny balloon from the hospital is still floating at the back of her mind, close to the first cup of coffee she ever made him.

“Nah, I’m good. I’m not too hungry, and I still have all that yogurt and granola in the fridge to get through before Leif throws it out.” Somehow, she avoids wrinkling her nose. Every once in a while, for some reason, she’ll try and get back on the yogurt bandwagon, and it never ends up well for her or the communal fridge.

“’kay, well, offer still stands if there’s new life in your yogurt. See you in a bit!”

“See ya!” she calls, turning back to the frustratingly perfect lines of code blinking before her.

About a half hour later, her phone starts vibrating.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. Schrödinger is vomiting all over the place. I think he must’ve gotten into the trash again. It’s probably nothing but I’m going to keep an eye on him and work from home for the rest of the night.”

“Aw, poor Schro. I hope he feels better.”

“Yeah, me too. See you later.”

As the evening wears on, more and more coworkers file out until only Leif and Zoey are left in the bullpen. Max calls at 9 to give an update on Schro, who is doing better. He also says that he hasn’t found anything amiss in the software, so he’s going to call it a night.

She’s about to clone the watch’s firmware when she hears a voice.

_“All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces.”_

It’s not Leif.

_“Bright and early for their daily races, going nowhere, going nowhere…”_

Zoey stills. The music—it’s not gone, after all. But she has to make sure. Maybe…just maybe it’s a fluke, maybe someone unplugged their headphones with Spotify on.

She follows the plaintive tune all the way to Simon Haynes’ office, dreading every step that brings her closer to the music. She finds Simon, Mr. Joie de Vivre, sitting at his desk looking so hopelessly broken that she wants to turn aside to give him some privacy. It’s not a big dance number. He’s just sitting in the darkness, clutching a photograph for dear life, like he might shatter into a million pieces if it blew into the wind.

Simon looks up, staring straight into her eyes, which are stinging with unshed tears.

_“Mad world. Mad world.”_

When she looks back, he’s typing away at his laptop, as though he hadn’t just crumpled to bits, as though he hadn’t noticed her at all. And maybe he didn’t?

She doesn’t know. She shrugs her jacket on and lets Leif know she’s heading out for the night.

The Make Out Place is not Zoey’s scene, but it is Mo’s, and she sets out to find him. Actually, it’s not so much finding him that’s the problem—he is _glowing_ —as getting through the crowd of churning, inebriated bodies in her way.

“You actually came to my gig!”

“You told me to tell you if it happens again. All day, nothing, and then, out of nowhere, it happened again!”

Zoey can’t quite hear herself over the crowd and the music, but Mo seems to understand her well enough.

“What now? A bunch of cartoon birds land on your shoulders and sing show tunes to you?”

“No, this was just one person, singing something so raw and painful and personal, I almost felt embarrassed listening to it. What do you think that means?”

Mo considers.

“One of two things,” he says. “Either your powers are getting stronger, honing on specific targets, or you’re losing it, in which case, I will do my civic duty and drive you to the nearest mental health clinic as soon as I’m finished making seventies night _my bitch_!”

“I am just very, very confused. You said that I was getting a glimpse into other people’s heads, and I—wait. Yesterday, there was someone who was probably feeling, like, a lot. Max. He seemed super worried about me when I missed work and he went all the way to the hospital to see if I was okay and—”

“He did?” Mo whistles. “I thought I heard someone hurrying down the hall like the Furies were after them. That boy is something else, you know that? _Mm_.”

There’s something about the way Mo says that that makes Zoey want to drop the conversation, but she shakes it off and continues, because she has to get rid of this stupid power.

“Look, I don’t really know why he was acting all…intense, I guess, but don’t you think it’s weird I didn’t hear him singing some kind of, I dunno, worry song?”

A small part of her wonders: _if Max_ wasn’t _singing…what does that mean? He looked so genuine._

Mo lifts his eyes to the ceiling like he’s asking for patience from above. He shakes his head. “Girl, you do _not_ understand human emotions, do you? Look, put it this way. You didn’t hear me singing the other day, did you? Why? Because I was high, nothin’ going on in my head, operatin’ on another plane.”

“Okay but Max wasn’t high, though.”

“No. But when something catastrophic happens, when someone you really care about is in danger? The world goes silent. I’m guessing there was so much going on in that poor schmuck’s head, wasn’t anything that your power could’ve translated into lyrics.”

That doesn’t…not make sense. She knows she’s more than a coworker to Max, obviously. She’s his best friend, and probably the closest thing he has to family on the West coast. And he isn’t all that close with his family on the East coast.

They’re family, like brother and sister. Except—

_Nope._

Zoey turns the conversation back to Simon.

Zoey is…off today. Come to think of it, she’s been acting a little odd ever since her MRI on Monday, but that’s not terribly surprising, given her claustrophobia and the ill-timed earthquake. It’s been a rough week for her, and he’s guessing that she’s sleep deprived on top of that, based on the frankly concerning amount of caffeine she’s chugging.

Her brow is furrowed as she looks up from her laptop, frustration seeping into every word as she growls, “I can’t find anything. No memory leak, no out-of-bounds exception. Not even a floating-point error!”

“Hey, uh, not that I’m keeping tabs or anything,”—he most definitely is—“but that’s like your fourth cup of coffee today. How late were you here last night?”

“Oh, I wasn’t just here. I went to this club called the Make Out Place.”

He can't have heard her right.

“You…went to a _club_?”

It's unexpected, especially on a Tuesday night, not that he can picture Zoey in a club on any other night. The words get a little jumbled in Max’s head as he processes. Zoey, club, Make Out Place—make out, Zoey, _making out with Zoey_ …

Zoey gets distracted then ( _welcome to the party_ ) and makes a beeline for the Cereal Bar.

Max blinks.

“Club. What’s next, Burning Man?” he mutters.

He went to bed last night before she’d come home, but he’s still a little hurt that she didn’t call and invite him along. He decides that’s probably unfair, but it still rankles a bit.

And he wonders whether she was hoping for some…other company? He was asleep so he can't say when she got back in last night, or if she’d had a guest. Although…the bed next door is ridiculously creaky; a pretty obvious tell. There were a few horrible, _horrible_ nights he woke up to the sounds of one of her then-boyfriends and that damned mattress. He takes a walk down the street when that happens, and tries to tell himself it wasn’t a mistake to live together. 

Anyway, it would be out of character for Zoey to be looking for someone new in a club. She listens to so many true crime podcasts that she made him make a pact with her a few years ago to never leave a bar or pub with a stranger. It was easy enough to say yes to that one. 

Max feels like a creep all the sudden, thinking about this. If Zoey met someone, she would tell him. But even if she didn’t, it isn’t his business.

He has no right to this jealousy, especially when he hasn’t told her how deeply, hopelessly he is in love with her.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd LOVE to hear what you thought! <3


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